


Where Art Thou, Tsundere?

by KeitieKalopsia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And One Yandere Thrown in for Fun, Current Events, Every Other Person is a Tsundere, Fae & Fairies, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Misunderstanding of Current Events, Phil the Florist Appears Once or Twice, Teleportation, The Total Fucking Up of Politics and International Relations, Tsundere America (Hetalia), Tsundere England (Hetalia), Tsundere France (Hetalia), Tsundere Japan (Hetalia), Tsundere South Italy (Hetalia), Tsunderes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeitieKalopsia/pseuds/KeitieKalopsia
Summary: England is over a thousand years old, and over the course of his life, he's had many ups and downs, but one thing has always remained constant: his tsundere-ness. However, it's now the 21st century, and those old habits are growing exhausting. When England decides to retire from the tsundere game, it throws everyone off-balance, and the other tsunderes (closeted ones, too) appear to be following his lead.
Relationships: America & Japan (Hetalia), America/Russia (Hetalia), China & England (Hetalia), China/Japan (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), France & Prussia & Spain (Hetalia), Japan & Spain (Hetalia), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia), minor England/China (Hetalia), minor France/China (Hetalia)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 249





	1. Prologue: Setting the Stage for Sensibility

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. I don't even own any Hetalia merch.
> 
> If you have any strong political views or can't stand references to modern-day politics in fanfiction, then I highly advise that you don't read this story. In this story, I will not refrain from screwing with current events beyond realistic possibility. Have fun!  
> *I will be posting every 1-2 weeks, unless Armageddon comes early this year*  
> Edit: Armageddon came early this year (2020).

**Late 17th Century**

“I wanna be friends with him, that’s why I need flowers! Can you get ‘em, Iggy? Can you get ‘em?”

England handed the servant his empty dish and looked at his younger brother, who was swinging his legs back and forth on his chair.

“Yes, America, I’ll get you the forget-me-nots, but that boy — what was his name — isn’t guaranteed to be friends with you just because you bring him flowers.”

America pouted. “But Davie said he wanted flowers! The little purple ones!”

“Flowers aren’t a bad idea, but if that fails,” England thought for a moment about whether he should be telling his colony this. “If at first your plans don’t work, your next move should be to pretend to despise him. In doing so, you’ll both save face and get him to chase your friendship instead.”

America blinked. “Wha, like chess?”

“Yes, precisely like chess!”

“Iggy, teach me chess so I can get people to chase me!”

England clapped his hands together and smiled. “Tell you what, I’ll get you a chess set for Christmas, and we can play it together, okay?”

“Okay, Iggy!”

As the little blond boy left the table, his older brother got the feeling that he had just taught the young nation a very valuable lesson.

* * *

**Early 20th Century**

Upon reaching their usual meeting spot at the top of the hill, Japan flopped onto his back. He was exhausted not physically, but emotionally. America, a recent friend of his, gazed down at him from atop a tree branch, apple in hand.

“What’s up with your face, Keeks? You look like shit.” He tossed the apple to the other nation. Japan caught it and took a bite.

“It’s Chugoku. His attention is always on someone else, never me. Always those westerners.” Japan flipped the fruit in his hand.

From the tree, America studied his friend’s face. They had met just sixty years ago, but he wanted to help him. Relatively new powers on the world stage had to stick together, and if Japan had a crush then by golly, America was going to help him get the guy.

“Y’know,, if you want his attention…” America briefly contemplated whether this was the right thing to do. Ah, fuck it.

“What?” Japan sat straight up, nearly choking on a piece of apple as he did so. “What is it?”

“Gotta be honest with ya,” America said, “the fastest way to get someone’s attention is probably by declaring war on ‘em.”

Japan tilted his head at an awkward angle to face the American in the tree. “So you’re saying that I should go to war with Chugoku?”

“Yeah, go for it! You get his attention by fighting with him and if you win, you also get control over him! And if you lose, well that’s just pathetic.”

“This whole method of violence for affection, we have a word for it in Japanese,” the island nation realized aloud. “It’s called ‘tsundere.’”

“Does it work?” America asked.

“I haven’t tried it personally,” said Japan after finishing his apple, “but I would be willing to carry out a trial run.”

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” America beamed. “Your soulmate’s out there waiting for you to try to kill ‘im! What’ve you got to lose?”

* * *

**Present Day**

England looked on fondly as Romano not-so-lightly punched Spain in the chest. That seemed painful.

They were in the lounge of the building, taking a break from the World Meeting in France. Countries could be seen bickering in every corner of the room, and if one were to pay close attention, the voices of various micronations could be heard from the vents. England turned his focus back to the Mediterranean couple.

Spain and Romano had been married for a few years now, so the tsundere method of seduction held some merit. In England’s eyes, Romano had used his wit and charm to lure Spain in while keeping himself just far enough away to build an increasing sense of longing — and subsequently love.

Sighing, England wondered when such a thing would happen for him and France. France, who withstood all of England’s jabs and hits. France, who never pulled any punches when it came to England. France who, when England insulted him… insulted him back. France who, on Valentine’s Day, gave everyone flowers… except for England. France, who had a tendency to flirt with England… and then deny any attraction to him immediately afterward.

With a start, England realized that France was also a tsundere! This must have been why it was taking so long for the two of them to end up together. The method couldn’t work if they were both in denial of their love, so really, there was only one thing to do.

England had to stop being a tsundere.


	2. Chapter 1: The Beginnings of Befuddlement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England asks out his long-time crush, France sees in gray, and Romano's perceived problems are introduced.

It was the first sunny day of the month in London. England found it fit for the occasion; even the weather was signaling to him that it was time to turn over a new leaf. Mustering some courage, he chose an outfit that looked like he had actually put effort into dressing himself. Sweater vests wouldn’t cut it if he was going to try and charm France, the fashion center of the world.

Finally, he had to brush his hair. England looked around uncertainly. He did have a hairbrush, didn’t he? After some searching, he found a comb in the back of a dusty old drawer. It was made of jade and etched with gold. Surely this wasn’t his. All the same, it was a comb, so he used it to smoothen his unruly bedhead.

Before going out, England remembered that the jade comb belonged to China. He tucked it in his bag and made a mental note to return it the next time he saw him.

London looked so much more vibrant in the sunlight. The corners of buildings seemed to glitter with gold, and the cumulus clouds framed the Shard like a white crown. A flower vendor stood at the corner of the busy street.

“Hullo, could you make a bouquet for me?” England asked.

The vendor got to work. “What would you like in your bouquet, mister?”

He thought for a moment before saying, “White violets, lots of them. With a single red rose in the center.”

“You trying to ask someone you know on a date?” The vendor inquired, making conversation.

“Yes, someone I’ve known for a long time.” Watching the vendor work — his nametag said ‘Phil’ — England thought about what he should say to France. “You know what? Put a few purple hyacinths in there, as an apology.”

Phil the vendor chuckled. “Would this happen to be the same person you sent the Fuck You Bouquet to?”

England frowned. “How did you know?”

“He’s the only person you send flowers to.” The vendor wrapped the bouquet and tied it with a bow, handing it to the other man. “Good luck.”

* * *

France woke up. Paris was beautiful. He was beautiful. Paris in the morning was even more beautiful. Then he looked outside.

The sky was windy and a gray blanket of clouds covered everything as far as the eye could see, so that no evidence of a sun could be found. It was the kind of plain, consistent gray where one would even wish for rain, just to get the clouds over and done with. But no, this kind of gray persisted for days — weeks if France was unlucky enough.

Walking through the streets of Paris, France felt as though he were on autopilot. Rather than stepping along the sidewalk, the sidewalks wound around his legs and tugged him along, past homes and stores and ancient monuments only slightly younger than himself. The clouds bathed the road, the buildings in gray. The air tasted and smelled like gray. France felt gray.

The gray clouds of Paris soon melted into the gray skies of Calais, a fifteen-minute walk. He had teleported subconsciously — sipped, dashed, scaled down the distance, whatever the others wanted to call it. France was now at the centre-ville of Calais, gray cars speeding past on gray roads. Amid the pallid cityscape, he spotted a flash of color: red and violet and, ugh, brown.

The colorful figure came closer, and France could make out that it was England, wearing a brown coat — something blue underneath — a stylish shoulder bag over his arm, and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. They made eye contact. England strolled over and beamed at France. This wasn’t right.

“Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?” England handed the flowers to him, a hopeful smile on his face. France read the bouquet as, _I apologize for being horrible to you in the past, but we have a chance at happiness now, so I’ve come her to say “I love you.”_

France looked up expecting to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse riding in flaming chariots across the sky, but no.The clouds were still gray, the sun was still trying to exist, and England was still here asking him out. In this sort of situation, there was only one right answer.

With a blank stare, France said, “I’ll call you back later.”

“NO! Don’t you dare—” England took a deep breath. “I came all this way, and although the teleportation lag mat have improved since we built the Eurotunnel, it’s not that much better, so shut— so please at least consider this dinner date.”

France smirked. “I’m not surprised you’re this desperate for a date, _sourcils_. Not with those woolly eyebrows and that despicable attitude of yours. Who turned you down this time?”

“No one turned me down! I could easily get a date if I wanted to, you—” England caught himself again. It seemed that his newfound demeanor took more effort than France had thought. “I only came here because I realized that we hadn’t spoken civilly in a while, and just because I wanted to see my darling froggy.”

There were no words to describe France’s current train of thought, but he found that “France.exe has stopped working” fit well enough. If England wanted so badly to have a dinner date with him, then he’d humor him. He wouldn’t go so far as to be romantic, of course. In fact, England would probably have come to his senses by then, and they’d revert to their usual banter.

“Very well,” France said with a sigh, “I suppose there is no other way to be rid of you than to agree to this date. Do you have a place in mind?”

“A charming restaurant just a few blocks from the Parliament building.” Grinning, England gave him the name of the place. “I’ll see you there at eight?”

“That sounds like the name of a French restaurant, _non?_ You’d be willing to have French cuisine, even if it’s in London?”

England scoffed. “I’ve been there before. Their food isn’t half bad. And I thought you’d like it.”

“Hmph. If you enjoy the food, it must be _merde,_ but I guess you can’t truly live life without risking your health a few times.”

“It’s not— _Ahem,_ I look forward to seeing you this evening, love.” With that, England blew France a kiss and walked away.

“And I’ll be off buying life insurance!” France called into the distance.

England soon disappeared, leaving France back among the gray, wondering what had just happened. It was only after their conversation that he realized that the brand of England’s new shoulder bag was French. Why would his mortal enemy wear one of his products? That was when France realized the Englishman was serious — serious in luring him in and possibly murdering him!

* * *

“Aaargh!” Another splash of red splattered across the cream-colored wall. It was an atrocious waste of tomatoes, Romano knew, but he couldn’t be bothered to care right now.

Everything was wrong with their marriage. Everything. Spain had smiled and said everything was fine, but Romano knew what he was really thinking. That _bastardo_ would rather be married to Romano’s younger brother!

Not that there was anything wrong with Veneziano, but that was exactly the issue! Veneziano never argued, always smiled, and even though he was messy, he could be good at cleaning when he wanted to be. He’d make a perfect housewife. Compared to his brother, who’d want Romano and his foul attitude? Spain claimed to, but he saw how his husband had smiled at Veneziano the other day: _like living sunshine._

Romano checked the clock. _One o’clock._ He should be delivering the seasonal tomatoes to the other countries right about now. Grumbling, he hauled the unharmed tomato crates into the delivery van. Where the hell was Spain?

“Wait, wait!” yelled Spain, running out the front door, “I need to take a crate with me. I’m going to France’s house. He wants to talk about something. It sounds _muy_ important. I’m really sorry we can’t do the delivery together this time.”

“It’s okay, it doesn’t matter,” Romano mumbled. He shoved a crate at Spain. “Take it, _bastardo_. I can do the delivery alone. I don’t need you there, anyway!”

“Hehe….” Spain took the crate nervously. “I’ll see you back here at the farm tonight, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Romano slammed the back door of the delivery van and got into the driver’s seat. It’d been a while since he’d driven this. He didn’t feel right doing this alone. Looking out the side window, he saw that Spain was already gone. Oh, well. The first stop was the tea bastard. He started the car and drove forward. The sunny, green landscape of his and Spain’s tomato farm blurred and gave way to the brown and dreary cityscape of London.

Romano stood at the door to England’s house and rang the doorbell. A smiling face with striking green eyes answered.

“Oh hullo, Romano. Are these the tomatoes?”

“Sì, they’re here. Goodb—”

“Would you like to come inside? I’ve just made tea.”

Romano paused. The smiling face had just invited him in. He had other deliveries to get to, which normally took until sundown, but only because the _bastardo_ stopped to talk to everyone on the way. He supposed it hurt to chat with just one person for a few minutes.

“Fine, but I can’t stay for long. I have other nations to visit too, you know.” Romano stepped inside and sat at the couch. The tea tasted like Earl Grey, or something. Typical.

“You look like something’s bothering you,” the smiling green eyes pointed out. “What’s wrong?”

“Isn’t there always something wrong?” He sighed, “I don’t think the tomato bastard likes being married to me. I think he smiles less when I’m around. It’s all stupid, really.”

“Have you….” The green-eyed man that looked like England paused for a moment. “Have you tried being nice to him? You know, not insulting him, calling him Spain instead of ‘tomato bastard.’ Just enjoying your married life together?”

“No….” said Romano suspiciously. “Is that what you’ve been doing, ‘enjoying life?’”

“Yes!” exclaimed apparently-England. “I only just began today, but everything in my life falls into place so easily now! The power of cheerfulness is unbelievable! Just hours ago, I secured a dinner date with France!”

“Sounds more like everything’s falling apart to me, but okay,” Romano thought aloud. “Elaborate.” And so England did.


	3. Chapter 2: Preparation Preceding Production

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America takes a walk, England prepares for his date, France ponders going on said date, and Japan begins a conspiracy.

“Do-do-do, do,” America sang as he danced around his kitchen making coffee, “do-do-do, do-do-do!”

He could make out a muffled noise vaguely directed at him, but made no move to acknowledge it. He poured his liquid heaven into his mug, all the while humming along to the beat.

“Do-do-do, do-do,” He sipped his coffee and started a new dance. The muffled voice grew louder. He ignored it. “Do-do, do-do-do….”

“Amerika-kun!” Japan yanked down his roommate’s bluetooth headphones. “There’s a package on the doorstep for you.”

“Oh.” America made his way toward the door of his Brooklyn apartment. Japan had been staying over for some time now, trying to convince him into a partnership on some big “Earth-shattering” project. If “Earth-shattering” didn’t mean nukes, America wasn’t interested.

The box at the door was about the size of an office printer. America had been expecting it, but as he bent down to pick it up, a thought occurred to him.  _ What if this is a bomb? _

Before he even opened his mouth, Japan interjected. “It’s not going to be a bomb, Amerika.”

America picked up the cardboard box. It was light as a cloud, like always. He opened it on the kitchen table. Inside were several artificial sunflowers with various petals plucked off. He counted fifteen altogether.

Japan looked over his shoulder. “Didn’t you used to use real ones?”

“Yeah, but those kept dying in transit.”

“What does it say?”

America furrowed his brow. “I can’t tell you that. If you crack the code, you could use it against me.”

One by one, he read the flowers. Red stem first, then the blue stem, then green, yellow, violet, et cetera. He and Russia had been using this code uncracked for decades.

Japan poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to face his friend. “So, have you thought about my pitch?”

“No….” said America, engrossed in the sunflower messages. “Thought you wanted t’ partner with China.”

“Yes, so if I were to join with you on such a big project, it will make him want to come on board as well. Once he’s with me, you may choose whether or not you want to stay.”

Looking back up, America decided, “Fine, I’ll do the project with you. What the heck was it again, anyway?”

“I’m building a pyramid in Tokyo Bay. It’ll be twelve times the height of the Pyramid of Giza and should house at least one million people.” Japan calmly sipped his coffee.

America shook his head. “And you’re doing this on  _ water?” _

“It’s free real estate.”

“Wow, uh, good luck getting anyone else on board with that. You’re lucky China’s fucking crazy.” America got up and threw on a heavy coat. “I’m goin’ out.”

“In that? To where?” Japan asked. “It’s spring.”

“To Russia! I wanna beat up his Commie face in person!” The Japanese man figured at was best not to wonder what the Russian had said in his sunflowers.

* * *

Three men sat around a round kitchen table, staring at a bundle of flowers in a vase.

“Yep, it’s definitely a trap,” said Prussia, sitting back in his chair. “But now that you know, you can trap him back!”

“No,” said Spain with concern, “Inglaterra is never this obvious with his tricks.”

“So, what?” France asked. He’d been the one to call them to his home. “He isn’t faking it and Angleterre actually wants to go out with me?

There was an awkward silence.

“It’s implausible!” Prussia said after a minute. “Why are we even considering this?”

“Because that scheming pirate has never acted like this before!” Spain cried. “He could be being threatened, or manipulated, or— or— What if Inglaterra is dying?”

“Well, he  _ was  _ nicer to me around the first turn of the millennium,” France pondered, “but what would make him think he’s dying now?”

“There’s always Brexit,” Prussia brought up. “Just blame it on Brexit.”

Spain stood up and plucked a white violet from the bouquet. He began pacing around the table.

“The real question here is: should you actually go to the dinner,” he paused for dramatic effect, “or should you stand him up?”

“Standing him up sounds like a good idea,” Prussia said. “Just think 

about all the times he’s hurt you.”

“But I’ve hurt him, too,” France said. “It wouldn’t be fair to stand him up for that reason.”

“So you’re going on the date?” Prussia made a face.

“ _ Non.  _ Maybe, maybe not.”

“Just make a decision already! We’ve been sitting here for over an hour!”

“I— uh, I—” France’s eyes flitted around the table like he was looking for clues. Throughout this, Spain was still circling them. All of a sudden, he slammed his palms on the table inches from France’s face.

“DO YOU OR DO YOU NOT WANT TO GO ON THE DATE WITH INGLATERRA?!”

“I want to go on the date!” France all but squeaked.

“See? We could have done that an hour ago,” said Spain casually. “Pressure always works in getting the truth.”

“So it’s a date, huh? Need help picking a dress?” Prussia snickered.

“I am perfectly capable of finding something to wear on my own.” France rested his chin in his hand. “ _ Mais oui,  _ your opinion would be appreciated.”

* * *

America was halfway down the city block; the traffic lights were starting to blur, the car noises became muffled, he began walking straight through pedestrians, when he suddenly felt himself being pulled to the right.  _ Far _ to the right, by a familiar hand on his wrist. The zooming rapidly increased pace, until he lost footing and all he could see was blue, blue, blue, blue—

America fell onto England’s green couch. England himself was sitting right next to him, still holding America’s wrist. Two cups of tea were set up on the table before them.

This wasn’t right. A trip across the Atlantic normally took at least a couple of hours. Sitting up and adjusting his glasses, America asked, “Wha— You can do that?  _ And that fast?” _

England mumbled something like “pixie dust.” He took a sip of tea and said, “I need your opinion on what I should wear. France and I are going on a date tonight.”

“You pulled me here for this? Hold up. You and France are goin’ out? Is somethin’ goin’ on with you, Iggy?”

England shook his head. “No, nothing’s going on with me. I’ve simply discovered a new way of courting France. In just a few measly hours, I’ve managed more than I’ve been able to in the past eleven centuries! America, drink your tea.”

America gulped down a cuppa. “Seriously, you’re not kidding? You gotta tell me what kinda method this is!”

“No, what I need right now,” England got up and beckoned for his estranged brother to follow him to his bedroom, “is for you to help me pick out and outfit to wear tonight.”

“Okey-dokey.” America followed him. “Tell me ‘bout it while we’re doin’ this then. Hey, need any help with lingerie?”

“... No, I’ll be quite alright.”

* * *

_ Strategy, it’s all strategy,  _ Japan thought as he printed out the final papers. The whirr of the printer machine dimmed to a hum as the last sheet of black and white slid out. He took it and added it to his meticulously ordered stack.

Now that this step was completed, he had to move on to the next one: rumors. Japan sat down at the desk in his room and opened his laptop. Word had to be spread and attention had to be attracted. He’d need to drop hints on his Twitter and Line accounts, maybe an architectural sketch on Instagram with a caption open to interpretation. If high school girls could do it, Japan could too.

On the other hand, he’d need to plant at least one red flag that would make it past even the fortress of Chinese censorship for his brother to see. It seemed that Hello Kitty had been permitted to persist, so Japan dropped allusions to his pet project in a “bootleg Hello Kitty short film” that he conjured from scratch. The low’-quality video didn’t take much time to make.

Lastly, the most important element was jealousy. He found a photo of himself with America and France at an anime convention several months ago, and Photoshopped them onto a backdrop of a confidential-looking Japanese laboratory. The exponentially-better quality of the fake photograph felt to Japan like emotional and mental healing from creating the Hello Kitty film.

He posted the picture on Snapchat. It would only exist for a short time, but Japan knew China would see it before it was gone.

The island lounged on his bed once the deed was done, clutching the Amerimochi pillow that his roommate found both endearing and creepy. Before long, word would get around — around to China in particular. France would probably ask a few questions, but Japan could deal with that. He hugged Amerimochi tighter and sighed.

The sound of the apartment door opening snapped him back to attention.  _ America is back already? _ He went out into the living room, making sure to take his bundle of papers with him. His blond roommate was hanging up his coat.

“You’re already home?” Japan asked America. “You normally stay at Roshia’s place for at least a day.”

“Nope,” America responded, popping the ‘p.’ “Never even made it there. Iggy abducted me — exactly like an alien, by the way — to help him pick out clothes for a date. Can you believe he’s goin’ out with  _ France?” _

_ “Nani?” _ Japan shook his head. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Now that you’re back, I need you to sign these for me. It’s confirmation of our deal.” He handed him the papers.

As America was signing the contracts, he recounted his unwilling visit to England. “And then he told me that I should try being  _ nice _ t’ him! That’s— Can you believe that? Me, nice to that Red?”

“No, not really,” the island admitted.

“Still, I guess I ought’a give it a shot.” America sounded like it damn near hurt him to say those words. Japan could see very clearly that any attempt he made to be nice to his wintry rival wouldn’t go over well.

“You don’t necessarily have to be either a tsundere or the perfect housewife to get Russia to love you, like it sounds like England’s doing,” Japan said after a while of America appearing to be mentally screaming. “At my place, there’s something called a yandere. By being a yandere, you could be loving as well as violent. Violently loving, basically.”

“Keep talkin’,” America said. He was liking the sound of this. It seemed so much more fitting for him than being a tsundere.

Japan briefly wondered about the consequences of making a yandere nation, but shrugged it off. After all, Belarus didn’t cause too much damage, so how much worse could a country spanning a third of a continent with one of the largest military forces in the world and sixty-five hundred nuclear warheads really be?


	4. Chapter 3: Dressing for a Dreaded Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England is getting dressed, France is [not] trying to get dressed, and Romano complains about relationship issues to some tea guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting this a day late, I honestly forgot about it yesterday.

_Green. Green brings out my eyes._

England and America had narrowed the clothing choices down to just three combinations, but now, only minutes after America had left, England was second-guessing their decisions.

_Green… with gold? No, that looks like Loki._

The restaurant they’d be going to was upper class, the kind of dining where one would have to look a little more than just presentable if they wanted to be let in the door. He and France both fancied that sort of thing, but that meant he’d have to be dressed his best. At times like these, England wished he still had servants to tell him what looked good and what didn’t. No matter. He’d just ask the fae.

England brought his two best outfits out with him to the parlor of his house. Two fae sat on his coffee table. Marilyn was completing a human-sized puzzle while Lunette was playing Call of Duty on a miniature screen.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said. “Do you think I’d look better in this,” He held up his green-accented suit, “or this?” He held up his red-accented suit.

Marilyn looked between the two. “ᴿᵉᵈ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ ˡᵒᵒᵏ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ʷʰᵉⁿ ˢᵉʷⁿ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ,” she decided, “ᵗᵒᵒ ᵐᵃⁿʸ ᵃⁿᵍˡᵉˢ, ᵘᵍʰ. ᴸᵘⁿᵉ?”

Lunette didn’t glance up from her game. “ᴵᶠ ᴵ ˡᵒᵒᵏ ᵃʷᵃʸ, ᴵ ᵐᶦᵍʰᵗ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᵈᶦᵉ,” she said, panicking. “ᴮᵘᵗ ᴸʸⁿⁿ'ˢ ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ. ᴵⁿ ᵐʸ ᵒᵖᶦⁿᶦᵒⁿ, ʸᵒᵘ’ᵛᵉ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵗᵒ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵈᵃʳᵏ ʰᵃᶦʳ ᵗᵒ ᵖᵘˡˡ ᵒᶠᶠ ʳᵉᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵃ ˢᵘᶦᵗ.” She then began spouting Celtifc curses at her screen.

“Green it is,” England decided. “And should I wear earrings?”

“ᴼⁿˡʸ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵐᵃˡˡ ᵒⁿᵉˢ,” Marilyn said, “ⁿᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠˡᵃˢʰʸ ᵏᶦⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵒʳᵉ ʷʰᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ᵃ ᵖᶦʳᵃᵗᵉ.”

England retreated to his room to put the rest of his clothes away. It was only five o’clock, so he had just under three hours to kill before dinner. He wasn’t a girl. He wasn’t about to spend two of those hours doing his makeup and fixing his hair. No, he wasn’t.

England went to the bathroom to find his makeup kit.

* * *

“More blue!”

“Less blue!”

“Jewelry?”

“Who cares about jewelry?”

“A watch, at least!”

“Not on my watch, kesese!”

France was lounging on his bed, lazily scrolling through Twitter on his phone. _What’s this? Japan is building his own pyramid, huh?_ On the other side of the room, closer to to the balcony, Spain and Prussia were arguing about what he should wear.

“This one’s nice,” Spain said, holding up a purple top.

“No, that’s no good at all,” France said, shaking his head. “It’s too pretty. I must look as though I put in no effort at all.”

Prussia held up a pair of sweatpants. “Then how about this one?”

“No that’s too little effort. That’s negative effort.”

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” Prussia complained, slouching into an armchair. His companion had made his way onto the balcony and begun poking at potted plants.

“ _Mon ami_ , I am doing something. I am trying not to try. Do you know how much it pains me to sit here and _not_ prepare for a date?”

“Then get the fuck up here and help us! We’ll tell you if something looks like you tried too hard.”

“Alright, _allons-y,_ ” France sighed.

They — Spain came back inside — eliminated purple as a possibility, and went through pink, red, orange, and blue before falling on either green or light yellow.

“How’s this?” Prussia brought into view an elegantly loose-fitting blue dress shirt. “It’s plain enough, and it looks good if you do your hair all wavy-like.”

“Would it look good with this watch?” Spain asked.

“Kesese, not on my wa—”

“So, no.”

France arranged the full outfit. “Oké, so this shirt, these pants, and no jewelry.” _I look like I just rolled out of bed and threw this on. Parfait._

Prussia chuckled. “ _Ja_ , and with some luck, you might be in for a cultural exchange tonight.”

“Pfft, I don’t need luck. Besides, I would never! I despise him!” France actually looked scandalized. “This date is a one-time thing only.”

“What’s wrong?” Spain asked. “You’ve slept with him before. How’s this different?”

“Because I think he actually intends to keep dating after the _échange culturel!”_

Spain’s eyes widened and his mouth fell into an ‘o’ shape. “Different shirt, different shirt, different shirt!”

With that, the hunt for the right outfit continued.

* * *

Romano dropped the tomato crate on the doorstep, rang the doorbell, and dashed back to the delivery can before Russia could answer the door. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and “zoomed” right out of the frigid country. His last stop would be China. A crucial part of tomato delivery was knowing where everyone would be living at different times of the year. In the spring, the other tea bastard should be at his southern countryside palace. Yes, a fucking palace.

The sprawling sunny rooves of the summer home appeared in view, and Romano lugged a crate to the front gate. He was surprised to find a doorbell installed there. Hesitantly, he pressed it.

In less than a minute, China was throwing open the massive red gate doors and welcoming him in. Romano begrudgingly accepted, trying to process the fact that the ancient nation was wearing jogging clothes and a sweatband.

“You caught me in the middle of a run,” China chirped. “I don’t normally go running this late in the day, but the weather was just so nice. And there’s no civilization for miles, so no one can see me wearing this.”

“I can see you,” Romano deadpanned.

“It’s also good for keeping hostages,” China added. Romano shut up.

On the way to the main house, they made further awkward conversation. The Asian asked how his economy was doing, Romano answered neutrally. He asked China how communism was working for him, China responded to the Italian neutrally as well. Then the Chinese man asked Romano how married life was treating him and Spain.

“Well,” Romano looked away to avoid eye contact. “We’re fine, I guess. Nothing wrong at all.”

“You lie,” China said. “Tell me the truth.”

“He’s not paying attention to me anymore,” Romano grumbled. “He hangs out with the sine and potato bastards all the time and when he talks to me he smiles but he doesn’t sound into it at all and I know it’s fake and I know he doesn’t love me anymore!” He broke down into tears.

China looked at the weeping Italian and scoffed. “Why am I not surprised? Honestly, I’m more shocked that you two managed to get married in the first place, aru. Xībānyá (Spain) gives you so much love and care, but do you even show him any love in return?”

“Shut up, bastardo! I don’t want to hear it!”

“I think you need to,” China said in a wise-sounding tone. “If you’re so worried about your marriage, then why are you standing here crying? Go do something about it! Win him back! But _please,_ whatever you do, don’t do it the way you normally do.”

` Romano side-eyed him. They were at the entrance of the main palace building by now. “Inghilterra told me something like that. It sounded like complete bullshit. Give me one good reason why I should listen to you.”

“Well, you like Xībānyá, right?”

“I love him, yes.”

“You love it when he smiles and when he’s kind to you and when he does nice things, right?”

“No shit.” Romano set down the tomato box on the doorstep.

“So, logically, he’d like it when you do that, too. But when was the last time you smiled or did something nice? Imagine if you never saw your husband smile, even after you were married. Now tell me what you think.” China sat on the crate and folded his hands in his lap.

Romano scowled and said, “I will _try_ to do those things you said, but I make no guarantees. Now, these tomatoes aren’t free.”

China reached into his sleeve and pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Where do I sign?”

“We use electronic payment now,” Romano said, presenting a tablet. “Type your credit card number here. We take Discovery or MasterCard.” China only sighed.

* * *

England adjusted his tie as he stood outside the restaurant. France was supposed to meet him here ten minutes ago, which meant that if his date was fashionably late as always, France would be here in five minutes. He’d even booked their reservation fifteen minutes late to accommodate for it. England checked his watch. Yep, four minutes and thirty-three seconds until France arrived.

England really shouldn’t be this jittery. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had dinner with France, but they’d never been on a proper date before. Briefly, he thought back to the time they took a tour through London; they’d just rebuilt that section of the city after it had burned down for the eleventh time. It had felt like a date, it really had, until Scotland had shown up and England was reminded that France’s real trip was to his brother further north. It didn’t matter, anyhow. The Auld Alliance was old news, and England had a chance to make things right now. He checked his watch again: eight-fourteen.

France was crossing the street to his side, walking in that confident stroll that had become so familiar to England’s eyes. He was wearing a deep purple, effortlessly graceful and not too flashy, or at least not as much as England might have feared. France wove a path through the passing crowd, making his way over to the restaurant window.

“ _Bonsoir,_ Angleterre.” He flashed a lazy smile. “Have you come to your senses yet?”

“Not by your definition, no.” England’s voice sounded borderline giddy, but that was ordinary before any first date, wasn’t it? _It’ll go away in time,_ he assured himself. “Uh, shall we head inside?”

England could hardly contain his grin. _France showed up, he showed up, he showed up! Not that I had any doubt, of course._ He tried to hook his arm in France’s, but was batted away.

“We’re not quite there yet,” France said.

When they walked inside, England did the gentlemanly thing and held the door for his date. France eyed him suspiciously, but didn’t question it. The lady at the reservation desk greeted them warmly and led them to their table. Once they were seated, she listed the evening specials and went about her way.

Looking at the menu, England asked, “So how has your week been? It must have been exhausting, hosting a World Conference.”

_“Non,_ not really.” France smirked. “It’s much easier when you have friends to help you out. Though I suppose you wouldn’t have that luxury.”

England brushed off the comment. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before. He saw France pout when he didn’t get the reaction he wanted, and England laughed. Comfortable with the atmosphere now, he made his choice and close the menu.

“What do you plan on ordering, France?”


	5. Chapter 4: Downright Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England and France finally get to that date, America packs for a trip, and China chooses alcohol over murder.

The sounds of soft piano music and tinkling glasses floated around the room. White plates and purple-red wine glimmered under the chandelier light, accenting cream tablecloths and dark, polished wood chairs. Gold watches and jewelry glinted at every corner of the eye. It was a setting not unfamiliar to the two golden-haired men who sat across from each other beside a window allowing perfect view of the outside world, rushing streets and pedestrians unacknowledged and ignored.

The two men were deep in conversation, as if nothing existed but them. They spoke about topics that few others understood, about the questions of humanity and the universe. Their voices were low and their mannerisms refined. Nothing about them was grounded, peasantly.

“TikTok is not that bad,” England protested.

“Not bad? It’s obnoxious. It is the bane of my ears and eyes,” France said, stiffly in disagreement.

“Remind me again why your opinion holds any credibility.” The corners of England’s lips quirked into a smile. France stared at the light reflected in his eyes, gold on peridot green. This was bad. He was having too much fun; fraternizing with the enemy was only acceptable if one didn’t enjoy it.

“Well, it’s not as if yours is any better.” He paused as the waiter collected their dishes. They had to be careful of what they said around humans. Once the waiter was out of sight, their conversation resumed. “Angleterre, how are your brothers?”

England looked offended that the question was even brought up, but answered it anyway. “Ireland is good. Wales is good. Northern Ireland is okay. Scotland is… less than okay, but when has he ever been, really?” He chuckled uncomfortably. “What about the trio?”

“I heard Prusse has a crush on someone, he’s north of Amerique, I think. Allegedly, I know him.  _ En réalité,  _ I have no idea who the new guy is.” France took a sip of wine, like he was preparing for a long monologue. “Espagne, on the other hand, says that Romano has been acting distant lately. It’s true, I don’t see his little sidekick around much anymore. And while we’re at it, Espagne wants his armada back.”

“Bollocks, that sounds like the plot of a soap opera. Is Spain alright?”

Despite all of the day’s inconsistencies, France still managed to be taken aback. “What, you care? That’s unlike you. You’ve always distanced yourself from our personal problems.”

Of course I care. Your problems are my problems. Friends bear the burden together.” England grinned like he was proud of himself. France elegantly choked on his wine.

“Friends, as in the European Union?”

“Yes. So long as we are together, we shall help each other when we’re down.” the Englishman folded his hands on the tablecloth.

“Are you saying that you’ve finally come to a consensus?” France asked incredulously. “Brexit isn’t happening after all?”

“W-well, I never said that….” He was blushing now. “The decision, we’re still split on whether or not to leave….” England looked down to hide his eyes.

“You look so cute like that,” France said offhandedly.

“Really, I do?” His head whipped up instantaneously, eyes wide with delight.

“Well, not anymore,” France grumbled. “The key was in the demureness.”

“Seriously though, should I hand out with the rest of Europe more often, or is it as overrated as the tourists claim it is?” England sounded genuine enough, but the other nation decided to poke fun anyway.

“As long as you don’t plan any invasions, you’re welcome anytime.” He then added, “Just not at my place.” It was exigent that he quashed his feelings now, for if he let them continue, he might end up in a serious relationship with the green-eyed island.

“Why not? I thought we were fine with each other now. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t be here on a date.”

France scoffed. “We’re not fine in any way! Even with how odd you’ve been lately, surely you must know that.”

England started to panic. “What could possibly still be wrong? Why can’t we be together? I thought for sure I did everything right!”

France waved a hand nonchalantly. “I simply don’t love you.” There, he’d said it. Now that butterfly feeling in his gut should stop. He was doing the right thing, he told himself. Nothing good could come from dating the black sheep of Europe, only discontentment and social ruin.

“You…  _ don’t _ love me?” England appeared to be taken aback. “I-I thought for sure…. You’ve been flirting with me since forever ago, we’ve had countless cultural exchanges, we’ve been through thick and thin together, how… ? You really don’t love me?”

“ _ Non,  _ I do not.” After centuries of practice, France’s acting was perfect. He was determined that the nation across from him would not detect the truth.

“Th-then….” England delicately placed his napkin back on the table. “I suppose that after this dinner, we should part ways, since you only see me as a friend—”

“Not even that.”

“Then we shall simply part ways, no strings attached.”

“None at all.”

The crystal chandeliers twinkled, their light reflecting in England’s tears as he stood up to leave. His legs moved like lead against the immaculate marble floor, but agonizing as it was to take every step away, he could not stop himself. The piano music resounded in his ears like an echoing death march, the clinking wine glasses like toasts celebrating his departure. Before he knew it, the bejeweled ceiling lights were instead the gleaming glow of the stars, and he was enveloped in the safe cloak of the night sky.

England was a ways down the city street, determined not to look back, by the time he remembered, “Shite, I forgot to pay the bill.”

* * *

“You think bringing an AK-47 might be a little over the top?”

“It’s nothing you haven’t done before,” Japan said in monotone. Helping America prepare for an extended trip to Russia was like cleaning a sink drain: monotonous yet disturbing at the same time.

“You’re right. Wouldn’t wanna be boring and predictable. How ‘bout I bring that revolver he and I used to play Russian roulette with? It’s symbolic.” America was rummaging through his stash of weapons looking for something to pack. Not all of his guns were here, of course. The more important ones were kept in Virginia or D.C., such as his lucky rifle from the Revolution.

“Why not bring a new weapon with you, to make new memories with?” Japan asked, twirling a pen between his fingers.”

“You’re right, you’re right! Why didn’t I think of that?” America pocketed a simple black handgun and paused, then reached back and took another, hiding it on the inside of his bomber jacket. “Just for good measure,” he reassured himself.

“That’s the last thing, right?” Frankly, Japan had better things to do than play wingman, but it was only fair that he helped his friend out in return for the earlier favor.

“Yep, I’m all set.”  
“If you don’t mind my asking,” the islander halted his pen-twirling, “how do you plan to avoid another Cold War if this goes awry?”

“I dunno,” America shrugged. “Guess I’ll just improvise.”

“Improvisation is partly what led to the Cold War in the first place, Amerika-kun.”

“I’ll make sure the tension doesn’t get too high, okay? I’ll try t’ keep it chill.” America zipped up his luggage and propped it upright.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Japan mumbled under his breath, but for all his ninja skills, his roommate still heard his remark.

“Hey, I’m just sayin’ that just because I’m in love with someone, it ain’t the end of the— Actually, I’d better rephrase that.”

“Mhm,” Japan agreed. “Now, did you get your president’s permission to leave yet?”

America tugged on his signature black gloves and swung open the door. “Eh, he’ll survive without me.”

By the time America had left, it was nearly eleven o’clock at night. They’d skipped dinner in favor of packing, so Japan was overjoyed to now prepare a midnight snack. Come morning, he was to return home. He couldn’t wait to be back in the comfort of his Tokyo flat.

* * *

Zap! The smell of burning flesh lingered in the air, combined with the sparks flitting out of the wall.

“Ugh, I will break your will eventually, aru!”

China just wanted a functioning home security system. Truth be told, he already had them in his city homes, but his more rural and ancient palaces were still vulnerable to intrusion, especially since having guards posted at every door had gone out of style. So he’d decided to start with one of the younger palaces, his southern spring and summer home which was only a couple thousand years old, and outfit it with some modern technology. It wasn’t going so well, though. The wires, like sneaky miniature vipers, got tangled in each other and refused to cooperate.

China groaned and sank into an embroidered chair. At least he’d managed to get the Wi-Fi running. He was scanning through the Internet, browsing for Hello Kitty merch, when he came across a video. It seemed hastily put together, but he didn’t mind much. It was the shady connotations that troubled him. From the sound of it, Japan was up to something.

He dug through Line, MySpace, even Snapchat and all the other social media that he didn’t care for to find what was going on. Once China pieced together what was going on, he was furious.

“So Rìběn (Japan) is working on a big project, huh? And with Měiguó (America) and Fǎguó (France), too….”

China pouted and slouched lower in his chair.  _ What does he see in those westerners, I wonder? They haven’t stuck with him for nearly as long as I have. They don’t know him like I do! _

He opened Japan’s contact on his phone. Should he call him and ask to join the project? No, too straightforward — he’d come across as desperate and jealous. So what could he do?

China paced around the worn wooden floors of the palace for what felt like hours before he resigned to call it quits for the day. It was nighttime now, but he wasn’t sleepy. No, he needed to vent to someone. But who?

He thought of the Koreas first, but they could take it the wrong way and get clingy, either of them. He thought of America next, but the recent trade wars had been putting a strain on their long-standing friendship. He could always just rant to a random human, sure, but neuralyzers hadn’t been invented yet and China wasn’t feeling like murder today.

Fortunately, he knew of a place that was always guaranteed to have drunks willing to listen to and promptly forget a stranger’s life story. With that, China headed off to England. To make the trip shorter, he drove in his car — though he scared himself half to death when he nearly hit Mount Everest — and arrived on the rocky isles in just over forty-five minutes.

He parked his car outside a nameless pub in London. The ones at the city center were most active, and with more people around he was less likely to be remembered. China sat down at the bar and ordered a drink. The raucous noise from the swarming plebeians everywhere drowned out his request, and China had to yell for the barkeep’s attention. Somewhere further down the bar, a plebeian fell out of his seat.

The blond man approached him as he was receiving his drink, and it was then that China realized he was not a plebeian at all, but rather England.

“What are you doing here, Yīngguó (England)? Didn’t you post on Twitter that you had a date with Fǎguó tonight?” China wasn’t all too perplexed, though. These two westerners somehow always managed to kill every chance at romance that came their way.

“It - hic - didn’t go so well.” England’s red-rimmed eyes were proof that he’d just been crying buckets, and China felt compelled to soothe his old friend.

“Why don’t you sit back down, and you can tell me all about it.” China gestured to the barstool next to his own.

“Ah, why the hell not? I’m out of tears anyway.” England stumbled onto the stool. “It all started back when France and I first met around 400 C.E.”

“No, that take too long. Start from today.” China leaned against the bar and waited to hear the story.


	6. Chapter 5: An Onslaught of Omission and Obtuseness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prussia and France talk "politics," Spain diagnoses the plague, America commits borderline home invasion, and England and China get drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update, forgive me?

“Are you seriously telling me that you just friend zoned your crush?”

Prussia and France were sitting on France’s bed, chatting about their day and all the latest gossip. The faint glow of the bedside lamp illuminated their pale faces in the dim space.

“I didn’t friend zone him!” France protested. “I told him that he was less than a friend.”

Prussia gave a shaky grin. “That’s— I’m pretty sure that’s worse. So much for you being the country of love. Why would you say something like that?!”

“I didn’t mean to! I just knew I couldn’t let myself get too close to him, so I had to say something, anything, to stop it! And then that just came out!” France buried his head in the nearest pillow, muffling his voice. “What else was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know,” Prussia shrugged. “I just know it’s _not that._ ”

France groaned. “When is Espagne getting here?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“He’s not. He promised the wifey he’d be home for the night, so he’s stuck there now, kesese!” The resided albino cackled.

“Oh Prusse, what do I do now? How can I possibly fix what I’ve done?” France produced a handkerchief from out of nowhere to dab at his tears.

Prussia thought about it. Should he really be giving his romantically prolific friend love advice when he himself had little experience in that field? What was more, was his advice even valid, or would it make things worse? After all, his advice was not relationship-based, but politically-based. If they were countries, did that make it the same thing? _Eh, what the heck,_ Prussia figured, _I might as well say it since this awkward silence is getting too long to be considered a pause._

Prussia grabbed France by the shoulders. “Listen, Frankreich. You took a stance when you said you didn’t love him. You have to stand by that now. You can’t just give in so easily! You’ll come across as indecisive. Chicks don’t dig guys who are indecisive — you’d know — and I doubt England does either.”

“So I shouldn’t apologize? I just keep pretending?”

“Just long enough to save face, don’t worry.”

Prussia hopped off the bed to leave, when France began sobbing again. He froze, then got back on the bed. The sobbing stopped.

“ _Désolé,_ I just didn’t imagine this afternoon that I’d be spending the night alone.” France smiled sheepishly.

“That’s okay, I can stay overnight. I’ll set up one of the extra mattresses on the floor and borrow your pajamas.” Prussia wasn’t about to leave one of his closest friends alone to cry himself to sleep.

“I don’t own any pajamas,” France said, “but I have a silk nightgown.”

“Right. Then I’ll just sleep in my day clothes.”

* * *

Spain walked up the steps to his farmhouse. Normally, he and his husband would still be out delivering the seasonal tomatoes, but he bet that Romano had finished early without his chatty interference. He turned the key and opened the door.

Candlelight lit up the entrance of the home. Red rose petals were scattered in a path leading to the dining table. Romano himself was standing at the table, dressed in nice clothes and an apron, carrying a tray of freshly cooked pasta and smiling sweetly.

“ _Buonasera,_ Spagna! Dinner is ready.”

Spain must have been feeling lightheaded. Was he hallucinating? He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Nope, that was really Romano right there.

“Uh, okay. Dinner,” Spain said, like an intelligent life form. He sat down as his husband set the pasta on the table.

“How much do you want?” Romano asked.

“About this much.” Spain made vague hand gestures to indicate an amount. Romano divided out portions for each of them and seated himself.

The ambiance of the room made Spain incredibly uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, quite the opposite actually, but because the Romano he knew would never do something like this. Was this Romano a fake? Had the real Romano been kidnapped and transported somewhere else? No, no, that was ridiculous, like something out of a horror movie he’d once seen. No, this was definitely something else.

They conversed over dinner, but everything still felt off. Romano had not hurt Spain’s pride once since the start of dinner. It was infinitely unnerving, and would probably stay that way until the root cause of the Italian’s abrupt transformation was discovered.

“And when I got there, Inghilterra incited me in for tea and scones.” Romano twirled some spaghetti on his fork. “I didn’t eat any scones, of course — I would’ve gotten food poisoning for sure — but I did have some tea.”

“Oh Romano, you should have brought some scones back! We could have used it as tomato fertilizer!” Suddenly, Spain had an epiphany. “Wait, did you say ‘food poisoning’?”

“Yeah, dumba— Yes I did, _amore,_ why do you ask?”

The gears were turning in Spain’s head. Not necessarily the right gears, but gears nonetheless. What if this strangeness was actually a disease, one which the Italian had contracted from England? It made sense. England was patient zero, so the symptoms must be… niceness? A drastic change in personality? What kind of sickness was this? How did it spread? Oh god, France could have contracted it when he was with England! If he had, then would Spain be in danger of getting it, too? Was it possible that he was already sick? _Dios mío, this is the new Black Death!_ Spain realized.

“Spagna? Spagna!” Romano was waving a hand in front of his face. “Tomato darling, you’ve kind of been staring into space for a long time. Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay.” Spain abruptly stood up and held Romano’s face in his hands. “Romano, you’re sick. Very, very sic. You need to rest for a while until we find out how to cure you.”

“Whoa, wait, wha—” He was suddenly picked up and carried bridal style to the bedroom, flailing all the way. Spain laid him gently down on their queen-sized bed and tucked him in. Romano was at a loss for words.

“You stay here and sleep, okay? I’ll call a doctor in the morning, one of the high-level ones familiar with state secrets like us. I’ll call your brother too, so he’ll probably be here to see you by the time you wake up. I’m going to make you some soup, okay?” Spain kissed his husband on the forehead and opened the door to leave.

“Wait, wait, tomato darling!” Romano reached out his hand as if grasping at air. “I’m not sick! Don’t leave, I’m not sick!”

Spain lowered his head in a solemn manner. “That’s what the sickness wants you to think.” Quietly, he left.

* * *

America was blurring his way to Moscow. Most other countries called it zooming or teleporting, but America objected to that. He preferred to use his own term, like he did for everything else. He refused to conform to others’ standards; he’d play by his own rules!

He reached the coast of California, where tourists and surfers were tanning on the beach. America dove into the Pacific water and began swimming. Two hours later, exhausted and soaked from head to toe, he and his luggage emerged from the frigid Okhotsk Sea. he took a deep breath and continued blurring to Moscow.

It was only once he reached the Red Square that America realized he could’ve just taken a car. Some of them, if enough effort was put into it, drove over water while blurring. Oh, well.

America dinged Russia’s doorbell.

“Is that you, Romano? I see a painful future for you and your tomatoes if that is the case,” said a voice from behind the door. It was a voice that America knew very well, one that caused his stomach to beat and his heart to flutter. Wait, no….

Russia opened the door, greeting the opposite nation with his most threatening grin. In return, America put on his least threatening smile.

“Amerika? What are you— Did you _swim_ over here?” The Russian appeared mildly horrified.

“Yeah, but it was worth it to come see you, sugar. You did send for me with those sunflowers, didn’t’cha?” America had to tilt his head up ~~a centimeter~~ an inch to meet his archenemy’s eyes.

“I sent you a death threat.” Russia’s smile tightened, becoming increasingly strained. “Your presence is not welcome in this ho—”

“I’ll welcome myself,” America declared, pushing the other nation aside so he could enter.

* * *

“And so I found myself here,” England slurred. Despite his mangled speech, it was evident that he had sobered up a bit since China had arrived. He was tipsy still, they both were, but he could mostly control the movement of his limbs now.

“Are you certain that all is lost?” China inquired, leaning forward to the edge of his seat, eyes wide like it was a campfire story.

“It could be!” England cried. “But at the same time, it might not be! Oh woe is me, it’s impossible to tell.”

China leaned back to sit normally on his stool. “At least you managed to wrestle you crush into a date at all,” he grumbled. “I’ve loved mine for longer than you’ve been alive, and still we’ve made less progress than you two have.” He sipped his drink. “And now, even in the twenty-first century, he’d rather be with you westerners than with me. He’s working on some grand project now, partnered up with a couple of blond clowns while I, who taught him everything he knows, haven’t heard squat about it?!"

"I know how you feel,” England said. “The rest of Europe doesn’t like to include me in things. I’m the ‘black sheep,’ so they say.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to being left out of the loop.”

China clinked his glass against England’s and they drank.

“Remember the good old days?” England reminisced. “That time I took you to the Caribbean to hunt for treasure? Yeah, those were the days,” he repeated to himself.

“Those were not the days. I almost drowned in sand!” China protested. His drinking buddy shook his head.

“Fine, then. What about the time we picked up one of those hideous giraffes in Africa for your emperor to see?”

“Now _those_ were the days,” China laughed. “He heard that I brought one for a previous emperor — What, two hundred years before? — and got jealous!” They both chuckled at the shared memory.

England stumbled to his feet. “I’d best be going now. It’s nearing midnight.”

China giggled. “If you walked alone this late at night, in this part of the city, you’d get robbed before you made it halfway! It’s safer if we take my car.”

“In your condition?” England eyed his friend’s lounging figure. “I doubt we’d make it past this street.”

They both doubled over laughing at nothing in particular. On their way to the door, the pair leaned on each other in a futile effort to maintain balance. Outside the pub, the chilly night air stung their warm, rouged faces.

“I guess we’ll be walking together, then,” China giggled again. “Do you live in the same place you used to?”

“Not since the last London fire. Come on, it’s this way.” England led him through the winding black city streets, past corner after corner. “This is my house.” England gestured at a brick… structure.

China squinted. “It is too dark for me to judge your exterior design choices. Take me inside so that I may judge your interior ones.”

They went in, and England was about to put down his shoulder bag when he remembered, “That’s right, I still have your comb from when you visited a few centuries ago!”

He pulled out a jade and gold comb and held it out to China.

“You can keep it, aruru,” China slurred, pushing the comb back toward him. “I’ve got other combs, but I get the feeling you don’t.”

“Well then, I must give you something in return,” the island said, swaying slightly and bracing himself on the side of the couch.

“I’d be willing to take that brooch off your hands.” The dark-haired nation pointed at England’s brooch. It was in the shape of a red and gold rose.

“Sure, I can’t even look at it without thinking of earlier tonight, anyhow.” He took off the pin and gave it to China, who appeared to be lost in thought. “You’re not leaving now, are you? The drive back to your place is nearly an hour, not to mention you’re drunk.”

“Tipsy.”

“Sorry, _tipsy._ ” England motioned for China to follow him to his room. “I have a large bed. You can sleep with me.”

 _“Sleep with you?”_ China looked beyond amused, mind definitely fuzzy with liquor and laughter.

England turned red. “Pardon me, that must be the alcohol talking.”

“I’m fine with the alcohol talking,” China said with a lopsided smile, and England mirrored his expression. Tonight could be one for spontaneity, tomorrow morning for regret. They closed the bedroom door.


	7. Chapter 6: A Delightful Daybreak and A Distressing Diagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Japan steals America's plane, England cooks brunch, and Romano "nearly dies."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be updating so late. I came down with a case of the [insert homework-related pun here], haha. Since our school's been shut down for the week — I'm sure you know why — I'll hopefully have time to write a small stockpile of chapters.

Breakfast was plated and the cutlery was put away. Japan carried the scraps of his cooking across the kitchen and let the offering slide into the sink as a sacrifice to America’s kitchen garbage disposal. He set the empty plate on the counter and flipped the switch on the wall, then nudged the pieces of food over the edge of the pit. Their terrified souls silently cried out for rescue, but the beast was merciless. Each one of them slid into the darkness, and down there, the monster’s jaws crunched them painfully into mush. The sounds of their agonizing deaths resounded in Japan’s ears as he wondered what would happen were he not to offer his sacrifices on a semi-regular basis.

The ringing of his phone snapped him out of his trance. The contact name read, _Furansu._ Japan answered the call while sitting down at the kitchen table to eat.

“ _Moshi moshi,_ it’s Nihon. What are you calling for?”

On the other end of the line, France cleared his throat. “I happened to see the photo you posted — marvelously edited, by the way — but we are definitely not working on some pyramid city project. I’m not that crazy.”

Japan mentally rolled his eyes. “I think the fact that you’re going out with Igirisu is enough of a testament to how crazy you are. Don’t even try to deny it. Everyone has heard.”

He took a bite of fruit and waited for France’s response.

“About that…. Angleterre and I aren’t going out. Last night’s _rendez-vous_ was just about testing the waters, and I decided that the two of us wouldn’t work well in a relationship.”

“That sounds stupid. Why would you do that?” Japan deadpanned.

“Well, only because— _Non,_ Espagne, _non!”_ France’s voice sounded farther away now. “Espagne, give it back!”

Another voice came on the line: Spain. “ _Hola,_ Japón! You have a medical degree, _¿sí?”_ Something crashed in the background. “Romano needs your help! He’s dying, and I think Francia might be, too!”

“No, I am not dying.”

Japan sipped his morning tea. “I know several forms of medicine. If the situation is truly dire, I would gladly offer my help.”

“ _Sí, sí, gracias!_ You need to come over immediately; I don’t know if we have much time.” A loud bang echoed on the other end. It sounded vaguely like a couch collapsing.

“Francia! Just let me restrain you! You need to go to the hospital, you’re infected!” A table evidently caved in.

“I insist. I am fine!” France cried.

Japan held the phone a little further from his ear to prevent damage from the incomprehensible screeching. After a minute, he hesitantly put it back to his ear in hopes that everything had calmed down. He wondered who the victor ended up being.

“ _Konnichiwa…?”_

“I’m back, I’m back!”came Spain’s answer. France chimed an _Mmph!_ from the background. “So you can come over to see Romano by noon, _¿está bien?”_

“ _Hai,”_ Japan responded, “I can borrow Amerika-kun’s private jet and bring my medical equipment to your farm. See you soon.” He hung up.

* * *

England peeked an eye open. The bright sun shone through the thin curtains, casting the window’s lined shadows over his bed. He was sprawled somewhat sideways, tilted in a way that his arm hung over the side. He motioned to sit up, but realized he was nude.

 _What happened last night?_ he wondered. The memories were foggy, but he distinctly remembered coming home with someone. _Was it France?_

“It’s too bright,” said a voice on the opposite side of the bed, a voice that surely wasn’t France’s.

“W-wot?” England said groggily.

“It’s too bright; close the curtains, aru!”

“They are closed, the sun is just stupidly persistent!” declared the now riled-up Englishman. It then occurred to him that the voice belonged to China, who, once England turned over to face him, was very clearly also nude. Did this count as cheating if he wasn’t dating France yet?

China was at least more covered by the thin burgundy blanket than he was, and was grasping one of the three large pillows that resided on England’s bed. His long dark locks were splayed elegantly over the scarlet mattress, and his beguiling doe eyes stared into England’s own as he spoke.

“Fuck the sun. I want to sleep.”

“You sleep, then,” England decided. “I can make us brunch in the meantime.”

China groaned in response, which the blond took as a yes. He dressed and brushed his teeth, then, uncannily remembering to brush his hair also, used his jade comb.

Once in his kitchen, he chose to prepare noodles, since he knew that his guest liked that England grabbed a pot from the cabinet; in the corner of his sight was the scorch mark on the gray counter from the last time he’d dared attempt a pastry. Guiltily, he lay a cutting board over it. Now came the cooking.

First, he had to oil the pot before boiling the water. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure whether the pot should be oiled, but if one had to oil a pan before baking cookies, then water should be the same, shouldn’t it? Oh well, better safe than sorry. He looked in the cabinet. He was all out of olive oil. That was fine. Kerosene would do just as well. He took out his cooking kerosene from the next cabinet shelf and slathered it over the pot. He then placed it on the stove and heated it up.

While waiting for the water to boil, England cut the garlic with his cooking scissors, but the pot wasn’t heating up quickly enough. He poured more kerosene in, because at this rate, he’d never finish before China woke up again. He continued making the sauce, until an all-too-familiar smell entered his periphery.

“Good lord, the water is on fire again!”

The shrill, insufferable beeping of the smoke alarm was almost worse than the smoke itself. England attacked the fiery pot with a blast from his kitchen’s fire extinguisher, dousing the flames before they could do much damage. Then he tossed the extinguisher at the alarm, shutting it up. Well, China must have awoken by now.

Nimble footsteps pattered down the hall. China appeared in the doorway, covered in only a blanket. He took one glance at the scene and sighed what sounded like an _aiya._

“Why am I not surprised?” he said flatly. Leaning over the counter, he lifted open a window and let the smoke out. “A whole millennium, and the best you can make is still a hunk of abstract rock.”

England hmph-ed and scrubbed the carbon dioxide off the stove. “You’re not going to tell anyone about last night, are you?”

“I’m not a braggart—” _Yes, you are,_ England thought. “—but why would you need me not to?”

“Because I still want to work things out with France.”

“Wouldn’t our affair make him jealous, then?”

England scrubbed the pot with soap and lifted his head to find China sitting on the kitchen counter, wearing his blanket like it was a lavish robe.

“I don’t do that sort of thing anymore,” he said after a moment of consideration. “I’ve quit; I’m not in the game anymore — not the tsundere game, that is.”

“So they all say,” China drawled, “and yet they all come crawling back on their hands and knees sooner or later. No one ever truly leaves.”

A disturbing minute of silence. England continued scrubbing the pot. China readjusted his blanket and sneezed.

“If—” England piped up hesitantly. “—if you really want to help, you could drop hints to France about how great it is to be in a seriously committed relationship. You’d probably have to be in a relationship yourself for it to work, though. Only if you’re up for it, of course.”

“That sounds like a plan.” China hopped off the countertop and left to get dressed. He sneezed, fell over, got up, and kept walking.

* * *

The private jet touched down in a grassy field. Japan emerged, mull medical gear in tow, like a small hospital had been crunched up into a smooth white box the size of a dinner table. He lugged it out into the backyard of the Carried-Vargas farmhouse and flipped a barely-visible switch, causing the box to unfold into a garage-sized clinic. He took out his cell phone and texted, _I am here. Bring out the body._

Almost instantaneously, Spain came majestically sprinting out, carrying Romano wrapped in blankets, as if he were rescuing him from a burning building. The wind picked up, and their hair and clothes flapped in the breeze. Japan opened the door wide so they could get in, and Spain softly laid his spouse on the off-white bed. Japan entered the room, but did not close the door.

“I’ll need you to step out while I conduct some tests,” he said in a low voice. Spain nodded in solemn understanding , and Romano looked distressed but said nothing. He only rubbed his eyes and yawned.

As soon as Spain was gone, Japan began running tests. The situation was urgent, and a diagnosis had to be made as early as possible. To be completely honest, they could already be too late.

After taking an X-ray, an MRI scan, some blood, temperature, and a few other unspecified tests, Japan had a good idea of what was wrong with his patient. Romano, on the other hand, had passed out.

“Romano! Romano, no! Stay with me!” Japan cried. Turning to his robotic assistant, he shouted, “Sakura-chan! I need a defibrillator, stat!”

The three foot tall white robot cheerily ejected a rectangular pair of defibrillators. Japan grabbed them and pressed them over Romano’s chest.

“Clear!” _Bzzt!_ The heart monitor began beeping and Sakura-chan made a worried look. Romano was still asleep. “We’ll have to try again. Clear!” _Bzzt!_ This time, the Italian awoke with a jolt.

“The fuck to you want, sushi bastard? I didn’t get any sleep last night!” He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times.

“Thank the gods you are okay, Romano-san. Do you know how lucky you are? We could have lost you for good! You were out cold.”

“Like hell, I’m lucky. There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m perfectly healthy.” He crossed his arms and pouted.

Japan just shook his head and chuckled. “Always in denial, aren’t you?” He returned to his notes. From the looks of it… ah, yes, this was unfortunate. He faced his patient again. “Please wait a moment while I speak with your husband, okay?”

“You’re not going to tell him I’m dying or some shit, are you?” Romano looked his doctor in the eye. Japan said nothing and exited the portable clinic.

He found Spain pacing outside on the lawn. As soon as he glimpsed Japan, he sped over and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“How is he? Is Romano going to be okay?” Spain’s eyes were wide with fright and panic; he was searching Japan’s face for any, any sign of concern.

Japan stepped back from the crazed man.

“He has—” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “—the coronavirus.”

Spain jumped back with a gasp. “How bad is it?” He was quivering now.

“His case….” Japan forced himself to look Spain in the eye. “His case could be fatal.”

Spain wailed.

“We’re going to have to keep you in quarantine as well,” Japan went on slowly, “and we will have to test you for the virus since you’ve been so close to him.”

“If my _tomate_ dies, I cannot go on living.”

“...Alright, then. Follow me. We have a separate room for you in the clinic. You may see your husband once we have determined whether you are infected. You said earlier that Furansu may be as well. We will bring him in later.”

Spain mopily trailed behind him.

* * *

Russia was seated across from America, feeling very uncomfortable as the opposite nation set up a chess board. The American intruder hummed the Star Spangled Banner as he carefully propped up each white piece. Likewise, Russia set up his own black pieces, only he was in no mood to sing. What was America even doing here? He surely had some ulterior motive. Was he trying to coax government secrets out of him? Did he want to trick him into falling for some ploy and then laugh about it in his face? Did he want his Farmville™ password? Knowing his strange archenemy, it could easily be any or none of these things. This was the reason Russia had to be alert and prepared at all times.

“Ruski. Yo, Russia!” America was leaned over the small lacquered table, snapping his fingers in front of Russia’s eyes. It looked as though America had already finished his first turn. “Your move.”


	8. Chapter 7: Adjusting Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Japan intimidates France, Russia procrastinates, and China fucks up.

France screamed and kicked fruitlessly as Japan dragged him into the pale hospital room.

“We must contain the coronavirus.” The Pacific island gracelessly dumped him on a bed and strapped him down tightly.

“I don’t have the coronavirus!” France yelped when his wrists were bound above his head and he ended up in an “X” position.

Japan menacingly held up an empty syringe. The glow of the overhead LED light glinted in his eyes.

“Then you have nothing to hide.”

As Japan was drawing his blood, France asked, “Why are you doing this? Why are you being so… extreme about fighting this disease?”

Japan closely examined the blood sample under his microscope. “It is my duty as a doctor to protect the world from disease and treat those who are ill,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No, that isn’t it. You’re never  _ this _ concerned. Unless…. Do you have an ulterior motive?”

Japan froze. He pushed his microscope away. “I do not have an ulterior motive.”

“Does it have anything to do with the photograph of us in front of the research lab?”

Japan was silent. His eyes flicked around the room searching for an escape. Eventually, he seemed to realize that there was no way out of the conversation. He glanced behind himself and swiftly locked the door.

“It’s for Chugoku. When I diagnosed Romano-kun, I realized that if I could contain this virus and cure him, senpai might notice me.” Japan scribbled on his notepad. “You’re not infected, by the way, and try not to get infected by other people. You are free to go.”

He unstrapped his “patient” and gave him a lollipop. France was about to leave.

“One more thing,” Japan remembered. “Last night, your date actually went well,didn’t it? You’re just afraid of dating your old enemy.”

“Why would you say that?” France feigned ignorance and stepped away from the door, despite wanting to escape through it more than anything.

“Please, I’m not dense. Just because I hang out with Amerika-kun doesn’t mean I’m as obtuse as he is. You’ve pined after Igirisu for nearly as long as you’ve been alive. Why else would you turn down a chance to be with him now?”

“I don’t like him in the least, much less am I scared to be with him!”

Japan pulled up a chair for France and one for himself. They both sat down, and Japan gestured at a small, three foot tall white robot in the corner that France hadn’t even noticed until then. The robot made adorable beeping noises and flashed its eyes. The lights dimmed, and a yellow lamp flicked on. Japan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his knuckles. This was an interrogation.

“One tsundere to another,” Japan started, “we both have the same end goal.”

France nodded silently. His eyes trailed toward the exit, but Japan tapped his cheek to keep him focused.

“I want to go out with Chugoku and you want to go out with Igirisu.” Before France could say anything, Japan snapped “Don’t deny it this time. You’ll only sound stupid.” He took a breath and went on. “Neither of us can act directly. Igirisu made the first move last time, so you, Furansu, have to make the next one. We can help each other behind the scenes.”

“I can pretend to be part of your pyramid project if you want,” France offered.

“That will certainly make them both envious, but we need to be more proactive than that. We could pull the classic move of dating someone else.”

Japan and France looked into each other’s eyes. It was quiet except for the ticking of the clock. They turned away.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Japan muttered, blushing.

“How did you mean it, then?” asked France, face also red.

“You could… date Chugoku.”

“If I had a drink, I’d spit it out now.”

“No, no, listen. If you get close to him, you can mention me, but don’t give too many details. Make him realize that he wants to ve in a relationship, but not with you, of course. You have a way with words. At the same time, you would make Igirisu very jealous.”

“Are you sure you aren’t just being a voyeur?”

“It has nothing to do with that.”

France nodded his head in agreement to the plan. “I can picture it.”

* * *

The game was tense. They had each lost almost all of their pieces. Only a select few remained. America could see Russia nervously sweating, but putting on a brave face. He smiled. His queen was in position, and it carried something very important with it. If it had been captured earlier in the game, things could have been really awkward.

“Checkmate,” America declared.

Russia sighed. “You came prepared with that strategy, didn’t you?”

“How’dja know?”

“Your posture says it all. You’re more tense than usual. Something is clearly on your mind,” he said cautiously. This was not amiable concern, America knew. He just wanted to drive him into a corner.

America’s face spread into his signature game show host grin. He slid his white queen toward Russia.

“Go on, open it.”

Very slowly, his opponent lifted the piece off the board.

“This is not a….”

“It isn’t a bomb.”

America smiled wider as Russia unscrewed the base of the queen. He tipped it over and a glimmering ring tumbled out into his palm. America met Russia’s disconcerted eyes with a somewhat predatory gaze.

“Russia… would you form a union with me?” Russia gasped. “We’ve been fighting each other for so long, but side by side, we’d be the ultimate power couple! I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. We could take over the world and no one would be able to stand in our way. Together, we’d be unstoppable!

Russia turned the ring in his palm. Once, twice, thrice, four times, America counted. The clock above the sitting room door ticked to the next minute. A politician’s footsteps echoed down the corridor adjacent to them, completely unaware of the monumental event that was taking place just behind a set of doors. Snow began falling outside the window, the view partially obstructed by crimson curtains. Still no response. America was prepared to wait as long as he had to.

* * *

The diamond ring sparkled. It wasn’t the huge kind of diamond that nobles back in the day liked, but it was… sizable. The jewel was fastened to a pale gold ring, a ring that would fit around Russia’s finger if he so wished.

Did he really have a choice in this, though? He could feel America’s irradiating stare on himself; he was fairly certain that his boisterous “friend” had not blinked in an unhealthy stretch of time. America began drumming his fingers. Russia held his breath in anticipation of his own answer.

“And if I refuse?” he managed to choke out. Shit, his voice cracked.

America shrugged. “Guess I’ll just have to fire up the ol’ H-bomb.”

Russia could see in his eyes that he undoubtedly would do that.

He weighed his options. Was world domination really worth having to put up with America for the rest of his life? Would the Earth actually burn to ashes if he refused his hand in marriage? Should he even be risking it?

“I will sleep on it,” he ultimately decided.

America’s eyes widened. He looked like he was about to go ballistic, but he balled his fists and forced on a beaming smile.

“Sure, no prob’. You have forty-eight hours.”

Two days. Two days before everything inevitably crashed and burned and the human race ended before global warming caught up to it.

On the contrary, two days also sounded like a good amount of time to sabotage America’s nuclear missiles.

* * *

China pulled up to France’s Paris home, squashing a small bush on the corner. He locked his car with a beep and strode up the stone steps to the front door. He lifted the gilded door knocker and let it drop with a bang. Two bangs. Three bangs.

Either France was not home or he had decided to become a shut-in.

Just as China decided he’d better leave or risk loitering, France appeared on the sidewalk, phasing through a few humans before solidifying. He caught sight of his visitor and waved.

_ “Je suis ici…  _ Chine?” What are you doing here?”

China recalled the lines he had memorized on the drive there.

He beamed and said, “I heard your radio show this morning, so I thought I’d ask you for relationship advice.”

“I didn’t know you were in a relationship….” said France, eyeing China’s rose brooch.

Oh, no. He had thoughtlessly worn the brooch from England upon going out as a sign of gratitude. Now France was getting the wrong idea!

“I am not in a relationship. That’s why I am here for advice.”  _ Fǎguó doesn’t believe me. _

France leaned on the stair rail, keeping his eyes on China, like he was waiting for him to say the wrong thing. He smiled politely, though.

“What sort of advice are you here for?”

China pretended to think for a moment. “Do you know anyone who is single?”

“I am single,” France said without missing a beat.

_ Damn, I said exactly what he wanted me to! What can I do to cover up this mistake? _

“Do you know anyone else?”  _ Very subtle, Zhōngguó (China). He won’t be offended by that at all. _

“Ja—” France paused. “ _ Non,  _ other than Angleterre and  _ moi,  _ everyone is taken.”

From the looks of it, France had almost let something important slip. China wondered what it was.

“What about Pǔlǔshì (Prussia)?”

France made a face. China smirked.

“I really don’t think that you and him….  _ Non.” _ He shook his head. “Would you like to come inside?”

China had to think fast. Should he accept or refuse? If having France set him up on a date wasn’t going to work, then was the next best thing to spend time with France or to ditch the plan altogether?

China cleared his throat. “It is almost lunchtime. I should be going.”

“We could get coffee together. I know a good pâtisserie.”

China internally screamed. He could tell that France was aiming for something, but what? If he wanted to make England jealous, why not date a human, or literally anyone else? Why China? Something was obviously up.

The question remained, though. Have lunch with France and find out what was going on or forego the plan entirely. He could still recommend that France date someone without dating anyone himself, right? Counterintuitive, sure, but thousands of years of experience had to count for something.

“Sure, let’s get lunch,” was the response he settled on. “Where is this pâtisserie you talk of?”

He let France lead him down a few streets. Crossing a road, China tripped on another pedestrian’s shoe and lost balance. France gripped his hand to keep him from falling and didn’t let go even once they were back on the sidewalk. Great, they were holding hands now.

At the pâtisserie, they had cute pastries that China almost found too fond to eat. They sat out on the terrace, under an umbrella, and shared a drink to cut costs, or so France claimed. They made intimate conversation about trivial topics. They shared gossip about stupid politicians. They shared personal phone numbers and China acquired France’s Snapchat code even though he himself didn’t have a Snapchat. They made plans to meet again.

Ay-yi-yi, they had just gone on a date, China realized only after they had already parted ways.

_ Fǎguó, you [REDACTED] [REDACTED],  _ he thought.  _ Are we seriously dating now? No matter, I can and will make the most of the situation. _

As France teleported away in the distance, China pulled out his cell phone and dialed England’s number.

“Yīngguó, I might have deviated from the plan a little bit.”

On the other end, England laughed.

“How bad can it be? It’s not like you had a cultural exchange with France or something.”

China was silent.

“You didn’t… right?” England’s voice was uneven.

“No, of course not! But he and I are dating now.” Better to just rip off the bandage.

“... That conniving little frog! You don’t have to explain; it was probably his fault, wasn’t it? It usually is. Don’t worry, we can still proceed with the plan, just… differently. Have a wonderfully brilliant day.” England hung up.

China stood staring into space and sneezed. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn’t have shared that drink with France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marriage proposal was inspired by a Tumblr post I saw on Pinterest.  
> https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/635359459901320222/


	9. Chapter 8: Irritating Insecurities and Insomnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romano waits too long, Russia [halfway] burglarizes America's home, England has a crisis and "talks to himself," and Japan DOES IT AGAIN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hololy mololy, how long has it been since I've updated?  
> By the way, keep in mind for the story that I have no idea how social media works.

Romano woke to the beeping of the heart monitor. The plain white walls were the same as when he’d fallen asleep. The breathing tube was new, though.

Spain had his head rested on the white bedsheets, asleep and unaware that the Italian was awake.

“Spagna….” Romano whispered.

“Romano… fusososo… no more spaghettios….”

“Spagna….” He nudged him with his elbow. “Spagna, wake up. You’re going to get infected.”

Spain sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Roma? You’re awake?”

Romano nodded and asked, “Why did you stay next to me? You’ll get sick for sure.” He winced as he slowly pulled out his breathing tube.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Spain said with a dopey smile, “I just love you that much. Well, that and I want to make the most of your niceness before you get better and become mean to me again.”

“The fuck do you me—” Romano sighed deeply. “The coronavirus doesn’t work like that. All of the symptoms are physical. I’m just being nice to you because I want to.”

Spain’s eyebrows furrowed in serious concern. He stared into Romano’s eyes, as if searching for signs of disingenuity.

“Do you really mean that? Do you really?”

Romano hesitated. Did he mean it? Was it genuine niceness if he was just trying to save their marriage? He doubted he could stay this kind to his husband forever. Sooner or later, he’d go back to being the way he was before.

He waited too long to answer.

“You don’t mean it.” Spain hung his head and fell silent.

Romano turned to face away from him. He listened to the rumple of the sheets and the deafening ticking of the clock. It read, 4:23 AM. Not a word from either of them.

A creaking noise came from behind him.

“ _Konnichiwa,”_ Romano heard Japan say. His voice was only slightly muffled by the mask he wore over his mouth. “Is everyone doing okay?” Silence.

Japan inspected numbers and line graphs on various machines around the room. He scribbled something on his clipboard.

“Supein,” he said. Spain looked up. “Whenever you’re ready, I’d like to talk to you outside about treatment.”

Japan exited the room. After a few seconds, Spain followed.

* * *

04:48 AM. Russia had not slept a wink. The night, so far, had consisted mainly of nervously checking social media, knitting for [ultimately inadequate] relaxation, playing Farmville™, and opening social media again. Did America post anything on his profile? Not yet. Would he eventually? It was inevitable that he would spill the beans.

In a moment of epiphany, Russia impaled his hand on the knitting needle. What if America’s friends had said something?

He dropped his knitting project and dashed over to his computer, dripping a bloody trail on the carpet.

England. Status: It’s complicated. Last Post: The baby dragon in the yard has begun hoarding silverware. Not all of it is mine. Does anyone want to adopt before it completely settles into its new home? (4 days ago)

China. Status: Single. Last Post: What is “dab?” (3 years ago)

Japan. Status: Single. Last Post: Amerika, Furansu, and I had the best time designing our little project last night. Things are going better than I thought. Here’s a snippet of our combined ideas. [Image Attached]

Russia froze. The images Japan posted were mostly architectural sketches, but one was of the trio, Japan and America and France, at a laboratory, looking an eensy bit too close to be friends. Japan had his arm around America’s shoulder, their faces practically touching. France was hugging them both and winking at the camera. America looked all too pleased with himself, as he normally did, but what was important was that he was hugging Japan back!

“How dare he?”

How could America so casually propose to Russia while he was in a polyamorous relationship with France and Japan?

“Does he… does he expect me to share?!”

Russia shut his laptop. He took a deep breath. And another. And another. Nope, not helping. …Well, maybe a little.

He rested his head on the desk and watched his hand slowly heal itself. He watched his puddle of blood gradually disintegrate and return to his bloodstream, just like his emotional tranquility and peace of mind. Still, no amount of meditation lessons with China was going to fix this situation. He needed another solution.

He had to confront Japan. Why Japan and not France? Not because Japan lived with America. Not at all because of that. Why on Earth would Russia need access to America’s home?

He threw on his casual tan coat and hid a gun in one of its inner pockets halfway out the door, he hesitated. Would he need anything else? Getting in the apartment wouldn’t be the only obstacle.

Several minutes later, Russia left his home with a few extra tools, including a lock pick. The paranoid American bastard probably had a lock on his pencil case. Not that Russia himself didn’t, but….

A hop, skip, and a horribly aimed jump later, Russia was in Toronto. This was why nations generally avoided teleporting after dark.

In the corner of his eye, a figure moved. A translucent, purple-eyed… person(?) with features difficult to make out ambled toward him from down an eerily empty alleyway.

“Oh, maple, what are you doing out so late?”

 _Scram,_ Russia’s brain told him. Thoughts of mysterious murder cases and strange urban horror crossed his mind. He turned and sprinted south to New York City, at last arriving at his archnemesis’s Brooklyn flat. He chose not to think of the _thing_ he just saw.

Standing on the doorstep, he rang the doorbell. Nobody answered. He pressed it a few more times, but nothing happened. Was nobody home? Did Japan already leave? And where had America gone after leaving Russia’s place? No matter. He just picked the lock.

The door swung open, and he was in. Carefully closing the entrance behind him, Russia flicked on the lights. He roamed the rooms and checked behind every door. Above America’s desk, he found his conspiracy board. A myriad of red threads linked Russia’s own photo to newspaper clippings of the 2016 presidential election, a couple of disappearing planes, and anti-vaxxers. He saw that no strings connected him to the coronavirus, nor Brexit. He did not like that. Not that he had been responsible for those things; he just didn’t like that America wasn’t thinking of him enough. This didn’t mean Russia liked him or anything, of course. Adjusting a few strings, he corrected the board.

Russia left to find Japan’s room. It was full of anime trinkets, many posters and pictures on the wall, and even a mounted samurai sword. It was as if the island nation had always lived there.

He sat himself on the bed, next to the Hatsune Miku body pillow and the stuffed Amerimochi. Japan even had a pillow modeled after Russia’s archnemesis. For some reason, Russia felt personally insulted.

Now that he was here, though, what would he do? What _could_ he do, in all honesty, to avoid marrying America without ending the world? He’d been in similar situations before with Belarus, in which he had just waited it out. However, something about America screamed, “You can run, but you can’t hide!”

Russia was beginning to wish he’d thought ahead before impulsively breaking and entering America’s apartment. He lazily kicked his legs and waited for a plan, any plan, preferably a good one, to come to him.

* * *

Glass shattered. Wooden window frames snapped. _Black Magic for Novices: Volume 1_ tumbled into the rosebush outside. Indoors, England heaved and lowered his arm. Then, he picked up a dictionary and broke another window.

France and China were dating. China was dating France. It had taken England hours to process that fact, let alone come to terms with it. What was wrong with England? Why wouldn’t France date him? They’d been doing the same song and dance for centuries, and even though England changed tactics, it was all still the same!

He collapsed onto the crooked couch, nearly kicking the coffee table in the process. The Sun was rising and he still hadn’t slept a wink. Not with the thoughts racing around in his head.

France was just trying to make him jealous, he knew that much. The new couple shared no chemistry beyond a love of cooking and breezy clothing. If the frog was going to slap him in the face like this, England was going to hit back for sure.

What should his next move be? England laid down and pondered the possibilities. He could retaliate by also going out with someone else, preferably someone close to France, like France had done with China. That was too basic, though. He could always go the more violent and less romantic route by burning down his enemy’s house. But that would cause a panic with all the bystanders. He could do what he often did in the past and declare war, but he doubted his bosses would take it very well.

“Lynn? Lune? What do you say?” Marilyn and Lunette peeked their heads out of a teacup on the end table. “How should I retaliate against the French twat?”

“ᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈᶻᵒⁿᵉ ʰᶦᵐ!” Lunette cried passionately.

“ᵂʰʸ?” Marilyn inquired. “ᴵ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ᵈᵒⁿᵉ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵃˡˡ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗˢᵘⁿᵈᵉʳᵉ ᶠᵘˢˢ?”

England paused.

“ᴺᵒ!” Lunette shrieked with fervor. “ᴴᵉ ʰᵘʳᵗ ʸᵒᵘ! ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵘˢᵗ ʰᵘʳᵗ ʰᶦᵐ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ! ᴮʳᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ʷʳᵃᵗʰ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍᵒᵈˢ ᵘᵖᵒⁿ ʰᶦˢ ˢᵐᵘᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ! ᴹᵉˢˢ ᵘᵖ ʰᶦˢ ᶜˡᵒˢᵉᵗ! ᵀᵃⁿᵍˡᵉ ʰᶦˢ ᵉᵃʳᵇᵘᵈˢ! ᴄʀᴜsʜ ʰᶦˢ ᵉᵐᵒᵗᶦᵒⁿᵃˡ ˢᵉᶜᵘʳᶦᵗʸ!!!”

She huffed and slouched back into the teacup, but kept eye contact, sending the message, _Make the right choice. Let me down and you’ll regret it._

England began to speak, but was interrupted by Marilyn.

“ʸᵒᵘ ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈⁿ'ᵗ ˡᶦˢᵗᵉⁿ ᵗᵒ ʰᵉʳ. ᵀʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ⁿᵒⁿˢᵉⁿˢᵉ. ʸᵒᵘ'ᵛᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ˢᵒ ᶠᵃʳ! ᴰᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵃˡᶦᶻᵉ ʰᵒʷ ᶜˡᵒˢᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵃ ˢᵘᶜᶜᵉˢˢᶠᵘˡ ᵈᵃᵗᵉ ˡᵃˢᵗ ᵗᶦᵐᵉ? ᶠʳᵉⁿᶜʰʸ ʲᵘˢᵗ ᶜʰᶦᶜᵏᵉⁿᵉᵈ ᵒᵘᵗ! ᴬ ˡᶦᵗᵗˡᵉ ˡᵒⁿᵍᵉʳ ʷᶦᵗʰᵒᵘᵗ ᵈᵒᶦⁿᵍ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ ᵗˢᵘⁿᵈᵉʳᵉ⁻ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ᵃˢ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ᵃˢ ᵉⁿᵍᵃᵍᵉᵈ! ᴰᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵐᵉˢˢ ᶦᵗ ᵘᵖ ᵇʸ ᵈᵒᶦⁿᵍ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ ˢᵗᵘᵖᶦᵈ!”

England pondered this. Lunette glared at her best friend. Marilyn deadpanned back at her.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to keep up the niceties a bit longer. What’ll I do about France and China, though?”

“ʸᵒᵘ⁻⁻”

“ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ʰᶦᵐ ʷᶦⁿ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵒⁿᵉ,” Marilyn said.

“I wot?”

“ᴵᵗ'ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ʷᵒʳᵗʰ ᶠᵘˢˢᶦⁿᵍ ᵒᵛᵉʳ. ᶠʳᵉⁿᶜʰʸ'ˡˡ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵃʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵉᵛᵉⁿᵗᵘᵃˡˡʸ. ᴮᵘᵍᵍᶦⁿᵍ ʰᶦᵐ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᶦᵗ ʷᶦˡˡ ᵒⁿˡʸ ˡᵉⁿᵍᵗʰᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʳᵒᶜᵉˢˢ.”

“ᵀʰᵃᵗ⁻⁻ ˢʰᵉ'ˢ ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ,” Lunette admitted. “ᴰᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵈʳᵃᵍ ᶦᵗ ᵒᵘᵗ, ʲᵘˢᵗ ˡᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠʳᵉⁿᶜʰ ʷᵘˢˢ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ʰᶦˢ ᶠᵘⁿ ᶠᵒʳ ⁿᵒʷ.”

“Alrighty then….” England ran a hand through his hair. “This may well be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.” A thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute, am I surrendering to France?!”

“ᴰᵒⁿ'ᵗ⁻⁻ ᴰᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ,” Marilyn hushed him.

“I have to… I’m going to have to write a scripted speech if I want to keep any dignity after this. I can’t be messing this up when it comes time to face him.”

England rummaged through a drawer and brought out a few pieces of parchment and a quill pen.

“ᵂʰᵉʳᵉ'ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶦⁿᵏʷᵉˡˡ?” Lunette asked.

“Oh shut it, it’s not a real quill,” England said, embarrassed. He clicked the pen and began writing.

“ᴬʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᵘʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ˢᵃʸ… ᵗʰᵃᵗ?” Lunette asked.

Grumbling, England crossed out what he’d written. A few lines later….

“ᴶᵘˢᵗ ʳᵉʳᵉᵃᵈ ʷʰᵃᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ʷʳᵒᵗᵉ,” Marilyn hinted.

England scribbled out some sentences and wrote a few more.

“ᴴᵉʰᵉ. ᵀʰᵃᵗ ˡᶦⁿᵉ ᶦˢ ʲᵘˢᵗ⁻⁻” Lunette giggled.

There went another one.

Marilyn grimaced. “ᴵ… ᴵ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈⁿ'ᵗ… ⁿᵒ.”

For fuck’s sake, his ideas were dropping like flies.

“ᵀʰᵃᵗ! ᵀʰᵃᵗ ᵒⁿᵉ!” Lunette squealed.

“Oh, what now?”

“ᴵᵗ'ˢ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ!” Lunette cheered.

“ᴵᵗ'ˢ ᵈᵉᶜᵉⁿᵗ.” Marilyn skimmed her eyes over the paper. “ᴶᵘˢᵗ… ᵖᵒˡᶦˢʰ ᶦᵗ, ᵈᵉᶠᶦⁿᶦᵗᵉˡʸ. ᴵᵗ'ˢ ᵇᵉᵗᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵒᵗʰᵉʳˢ, ᵃᵗ ˡᵉᵃˢᵗ.”

England leaned back in his seat. This could take a while.

“ᵀᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵗᶦᵐᵉ,” Lunette said soothingly. “ᵀʰᵉ ˡᵒⁿᵍᵉʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ, ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵒⁿᵍᵉʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵏᵉᵉᵖ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶠᶦⁿᶦᶜᵏʸ ᶠʳᵒᵍᵍᵉʳ ᵒⁿ ʰᶦˢ ᵗᵒᵉˢ.” Her soft voice became a snarl.

* * *

The bright orange sky reflected its light upon the shining, majestic field of tomatoes. The glow of the wonderful fruit (Romano insisted they were vegetables) lit the side of the white Japanese clinic a pale scarlet.

Japan’s hand waved in front of Spain’s face, putting a halt to his session of admiration.

“Supein, we were talking.”

“Ah, _sí._ Is that all for the treatment?”

“ _Hai._ But there is something else.” Japan cleared his throat and gestured for Spain to sit down on the backyard bench.

“Is this about….”  
“No.”

“But I didn’t say—”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re probably wrong.” He whipped out a clipboard. “We must discuss the state of your relationship with Romano.”

“I knew it! I was right!” Spain discreetly fist-pumped.

Japan said nothing and looked down at his board.

“To be frank, Romano and I aren’t at our best right now,” Spain admitted. “He and I have had some trouble communicating. I don’t really want to go into detail.”

“You might have to. Sorry to be callous. He has been acting… strangely, I’ve observed.”

Spain chuckled dryly. “That’s putting it lightly. I’m starting to wonder if he’s possessed… hehe…. I don’t know what’s up with him. What if he’s regretting marrying me? Please tell me he isn’t!”

“I’m sure he is not….” Japan appeared to think for a minute. “He might be.” Spain gasped and put his hands over his mouth, taken aback. “You might have to take some extreme measures to fix this.”

“I should chain him to the wall?” Spain beamed.

Japan snapped his head up. “You should what?”

“It worked last time.”

“No. You should not. Don’t. No. Do not do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because no. Just no.”

“I guess more thought has to be put into this after all. Any suggestions?”

“ _Hai._ In fact, I’ve given advice like this to someone else lately. I haven’t heard back from them yet, but I have high hopes.”

“What kind of advice?” Spain leaned forward and balanced his head on his interlaced fingers. _“Tell me.”_ Japan leaned back a little.

“It is called ‘being a tsundere.’ Think of how people like Romano or Igirisu normally act. Of course, their personalities are all haywire right now, but I mean how they acted before all this chaos.”

“So I should start acting like them?” Spain inquired. Japan nodded. “How would that help? How would that help at all?”

“By closing yourself off, you get him to open up emotionally, and then he may tell you the truth about why he’s acting differently. This could truly repair your marriage.”

Spain scratched his head.

“That logic does not sound very… sound.”

Japan shook his head.

“I can assure you that it is. Think about it. Romano acts this way and you love him, don’t you?”

Spain couldn’t deny that. He did love Romano very much, even more so for his quirky, argumentative nature.

“You have a point there. I’ll try it.” Spain got up to leave. Turning back, he asked, “You really think it will work?”

Japan scoffed. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“You’ve never given me advice before.”


	10. Chapter 9: Progressing to a Preferable Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> France braids China's hair, Russia does the easiest thing possible, and Spain and Romano hug it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to Gorgeous by Taylor Swift earlier, when I realized that — barring a couple of lines in the beginning verse — it actually fits FrUK oddly well. Listen to it. You may (or may not) come to the same conclusion.

_ This is helping your situation,  _ France assured himself as he stood outside the front gates of the southern palace, holding a bouquet of assorted flowers. His finger hovered over the doorbell.

_ This probably isn’t going to do you any good,  _ his common sense protested. France lowered his arm a little.

_ Japon knows what he’s talking about. I should listen to his advice. He has many years of experience with relationships!  _ France insisted against his better judgement.

_ Sure, and how many friends does he have? Have you seen him date anyone, ever?  _ If his common sense had a face, it would be raising an eyebrow at him.

_ America is his friend! _

Oui _ , his only friend is America. What does that say about Japon?  _ His common sense tried its best to narrow its imaginary eyes.

France was touching the doorbell now, not applying any pressure. Perhaps he should just leave. But he had already come all the way here.

He would leave it to fate, he decided. If this doorbell worked, then—

“What are you doing in front of my magnificent house?”

Well, that was that.

“And why are you just standing there staring at the door, aru? I have been watching you shuffle your feet like a crippled spider for ten minutes now.”

France put on a grim smile and turned to China, who was lugging a gargantuan tool kit out of the bushes. His mind went on autopilot.

“ _ Bonjour.  _ I simply wanted to bring you these bright flowers. They are as beautiful as you are,  _ mon cher.”  _ The words tumbled out of his mouth as he extended the bouquet to China.

China shifted his tool kit into one arm, staining under the weight, and took the flowers. He narrowed his eyes and sniffed them suspiciously.

“Achoo!” He held the flowers as far from his face as he possibly could to avoid an allergic reaction. “Beautiful, my [REDACTED]! These defects of nature are trying to kill me. Take them back.” He threw the plants at France, who caught it in surprise and amusement. “You want to come in?”

France nodded and pushed open the gate doors, which turned out to be unlocked.

“What were you doing out in the forest with that box?” he asked.

“Installing a home security system with automatic doors.”

“Was it successful?”

China looked at him with disappointed eyes. “Do you really have to ask that?”

They approached the main doors to the living area. When France failed to open it, China performed a dramatic kung-fu chop with his leg to force it open.

“This one we kick,” he said. “I have yet to fix the opening mechanism.”

China rested the tool kit down beside the wooden wall. He took a plate of little treats from a wooden shelf and placed it with a  _ clink  _ onto a wooden table. Pulling out wooden chairs for his guest and himself, he told France to sit.

“You just missed breakfast, but I still have these small cakes left.”

“How far did I miss breakfast by, exactly?” France asked. “You look like you’ve been working for hours.”

“What are you talking about? I-I look fine!” China patted his hair and ran a hand through his ponytail. “Oh….” His fingers got stuck. “Oh, no.”

“Would you like me to fix your hair for you?” France asked kindly. “I can do it in a French braid. It’d look very nice on you.”

“If you come within ten meters of me with that hairstyle, I will burn you alive! You can do my hair, but nothing overtly European, okay?” China menacingly bit into an egg tart.

France agreed, and their seats were shifted one behind the other. He was handed an ornate comb to use, after which he worked in silence, brushing inky locks until they were ready to be styled.

“Hair bands?” he asked concisely.

China drew a bundle of hair ties out of his oversized sleeve and laid them on the table. He cleared his throat.

“Făguó. Including right now, you’ve been on three dates in three days. Are you sure you are not trying to cope with something?”

France paused French braiding China’s hair. Was he that apparent?

He deflected China’s inquiry, saying, “Oh, that’s just par for the course for me. Besides, what could I possibly have to cope with?”  _ Don’t mention Angleterre. Don’t mention Angleterre. _

France resumed braiding as China began reciting a list.

“Well, there’s depression, grief, insecurities, addiction, stress, daily life, and, if all else fails, there’s always politics.”

_ At least he didn’t mention Angleterre. _

“We are politics,” France pointed out, beginning another braid on the opposite side of China’s head. “Almost everything we do is related to politics in some way.”

China scoffed. “That’s cause for depression right there. See? You do have something to cope with.”

France didn’t want to respond to that, however true it might be. He decided to continue styling the braids. The two plaits looped around each other and were fastened into place. Strands of hair were pulled out to look puffier, like petals.

“Seriously, though,” China said, “something is bothering you, and it has to do with Yīngguó. You and him went on a date that — allegedly — went fine until you brutishly declared your lack of love for him.”

“That is because I do not love him.”

“Why not? What do you dislike about him?”

“Angleterre is simply a horrible person. I could never consider him my lover. He is downright despicable.”

“How so?” China seemed to be in interrogation mode now.

“He is an awful cook, for one. He has no sense of fashion in the slightest, and… and his language sounds awful!” What else could France say? He had just exhausted eighty-five percent of his reasons to hate the British.

“Angleterre was once a pirate!” France managed to continue. France had also once been a pirate… but only briefly! “Aha! He practices dark magic. So,  _ mon chou,  _ we even have proof that he is evil.” There. That had to do it.

“No. That,  _ mon chou,” _ China imitated mockingly, “is a non sequitur.”

“It is a  _ oui _ sequitur!” France protested. “Anyway, I have completed your hairstyle.” Anything to change the conversation. He smoothened down some strands of hair and nudged his date to get up. China stayed sitting.

“No need, I have a mirror right here.” China pulled a handheld mirror out of his left sleeve. He examined his hair. “Is that… is that a rose-shaped braid on my head? What has been—  _ who  _ has been on your mind this whole time?”

“Not Angleterre.”

“No, I am sure my intuition was right all along; we both know it.”

* * *

Russia knew what he was doing. Or at least, that was what he kept telling himself. He had a plan now, so he was doing better than he was before.

He knew his American friend could be very paranoid and distrusting of things, even when they turned out to be completely harmless. The conspiracy bulletin was proof enough of that. Russia had actually caught America checking for cameras in his own living room when he had visited not long ago. It wouldn’t take much to drive him to the same lunacy again.

With that in mind, he removed his cream-colored gloves from his hands and laid them decisively on America’s desk. He made sure to position them directly below the bulletin of conspiracies, in the center of the cherry wood tabletop.

That was it. Russia would not take anything, would not leave any bugs, nor cameras. He could, if he so desired, hack into his rival’s laptop and download all of his personal information. For all America’s abundance of security, he was a quantity over quality man.

But Russia did nothing. He prepared to leave without a trace. He was nearly at the door when his eyes slid over to the silver refrigerator in the cozy-looking kitchen. He would just take a peek inside. It wasn’t like he was going to eat anything.

The freezer harbored some frozen pizza, frozen Eggo™ waffles (Leggo my Eggo!), and a carton of Bunny Tracks™ ice cream.

Russia’s stomach growled.

America would not be home for a while… probably. He wouldn’t notice if a few scoops or…  _ half _ of his ice cream went missing.

* * *

“Tomato darling!” Romano squealed as Spain entered the room.  _ Gotta make it sound convincing,  _ he thought bitterly.

But Spain did not respond in the way he thought he would.

“Just cut the crap, I know it’s fake.” Spain slumped into the seat next to the heart monitor. He glanced at the beeping machine. “You’re still alive? That’s… good.”

_ Che cosa?  _ Romano knew he’d fucked up that morning, but he doubted it warranted… whatever the hell this was.

“ _ Sì,  _ I may not be in tip-top shape, but I am alive and that’s enough, isn’t it?”  _ You just ooze optimism,  _ Romano’s inner voice said sarcastically.

“Eh, whatever.”

_ Whatever?! _ Romano had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming at him. Was this some sort of retribution for acting differently? Did Spain want Romano to know how he felt or something?

“Tomato darling,” he pleaded, “if there’s something you need to say, just say it.” He crossed his fingers under the blanket and hoped for a straightforward answer.

“What makes you think I have something to say?” Spain frowned at him. “I’m just here because it’s hot as hell outside and this place has air conditioning.”

“But our house also—”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,  _ cabrón _ (bastard).” Spain glared at him and then looked away.

_ Oh shit, he’s me,  _ Romano realized. Spain was doing everything Romano would normally do and say, but why? Why in the world would he do this?

_ … Oh  _ mio dio _ , does he miss me? _

Romano blushed. “You’re so cute when you’re angry,” he told Spain.

“Don’t call me cute. I’m not cute.” As expected.

“Your eyes are a… really nice green.” Romano tried to compliment him.

“Of course they are. But why do you care? You never cared before.”

Ouch. Was Spain deliberately trying to hurt him? This sounded like more than empty insults. Did Spain really mean what he said?

_ Do I  _ _ really mean what I say? _

Romano did mean it, and so did Spain, he bet. But Romano didn’t feel like he meant it when he expressed it in the cheery way he did now, and from the looks of it, neither did Spain. Naturally, that meant he should stop acting so strangely. But that meant that the only way to solve things would be to  _ talk it out. _

Romano refused to believe this. He would just have to act nicer. Could he even be any nicer than he was now? He decided to give it a try.

“It’s nice out today…. Do you want to pick flowers?”

Like a haunted doll, Spain turned his head little by little to stare at Romano. His saucer eyes bore into Romano’s soul, but at the same time, he looked conflicted.

_ Oh, for heaven’s sake, does he actually want to go flower-picking? _

Then, with a movement so quick Romano could almost hear a snap, Spain whipped his head away again.

“What are you, the fairy at the end of the fucking rainbow? The flowers can rot and die right where they are. No need to make their corpses our responsibility.”

_ So talking it out it was. _

Romano took a deep breath and prepared to switch back to his normal asshole mode.

“Listen,  _ bastardo.  _ We don’t have to go flower-picking or dancing in daisy fields, but we have to do something. I… I’m worried that you don’t love me anymore.”

Spain sprang out of his chair, instantaneously dropping his tsundere facade. He hugged Romano tightly and stroked his hair. Romano lightly pushed him away, but eventually resigned himself to being squeezed like a plush toy.

“I love you more than anyone else in the world!” Spain reassured his husband. “Why would you ever think that I don’t?”

“You’ve been kind of distant lately. You hang out with everyone except for me, and we don’t even do our tomato deliveries together anymore! What was I supposed to think?” Romano burst into tears, sobbing into Spain’s shoulder.

“You… I thought  _ you _ didn’t want me around. You always scream and pout whenever I’m around, so I figured you wanted space. I figured you regretted marrying me.”

Spain hugged Romano even tighter. The IV drip fell off. They stayed in each other’s arms for a few minutes before Romano spoke again.

“Are you going to spend more time with me after this?”

Spain laughed lightly.

“As long as you can try to be a  _ little  _ nicer to me.”

Romano could tolerate doing that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, I present to you the wondrous hairstyle that France did for China: http://trendsurvivor.com/easy-hairstyles-ideas-the-rose-braid-video/  
> (I'm referring to the first hairstyle shown.)


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